“The first time,” I repeated hollowly. “There will be others.”
It wasn’t a question. We both knew the answer.
Margaret bathed me with gentle efficiency, washing away the physical evidence of Gaspard’s assault. If only the memories could be cleansed as easily. When she’d finished, she brought forth a dress I’d never seen before. It was deep blue with cream lace at the collar and cuffs. Too fine for a village girl, too modest for the trophy Gaspard clearly intended me to be.
“This was laid out for thee,” Margaret explained, helping me into the unfamiliar garment. It fit perfectly, which meant Gaspard had been planning this, measuring me with his eyes for years. The thought made bile rise in my throat.
She worked silently after that, brushing and arranging my auburn hair into an elegant style. Practical enough not to draw attention, yet formal enough to mark me as belonging to someone of importance. Tohim.
“There,” Margaret said, stepping back to assess her work. “Thou art—”
The door crashed open. Gaspard strode in without knocking, the space shrinking with his presence. He was dressed in his finest clothes like we were attending to a wedding rather than town. A dark tailored coat over a crisp white shirt, polished leather boots that gleamed in the morning light. The picture of respectability. No one would guess what those well-manicured hands had done to me in the darkness.
“Leave us,” he commanded Margaret without looking at her.
The maid hesitated, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment before she curtseyed and slipped from the room. The door closed behind her with a soft finality.
Gaspard circled me slowly, inspecting Margaret’s work. His gaze lingered on my throat, where his fingers had pressed thenight before. A smile spread across his face—not one of pleasure but of ownership confirmed.
“Almost perfect,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a choker of thick black lace and silver, ornate and clearly expensive. Without asking permission—why would he start now?—he fastened it around my neck, his fingers brushing against my skin. I fought the urge to recoil. When I touched the back of it, I realized it wasn’t clasp. Gaspard had sewn it around my neck to always conceal what he did to me.
“To hide my handiwork,” he explained, turning me toward the small looking glass on the wall. “I was perhaps... overzealous in claiming what’s mine.”
In the glass, I barely recognized myself. The girl staring back wore a stranger’s clothes, a stranger’s hairstyle, and a collar as binding as any shackle. The choker camouflaged the ring of bruises Gaspard’s grip had left, transforming evidence of violence into a mark of privilege. Only I would know the truth it hid.
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue. What else could I say?
His hand came to rest on my shoulder, heavy and proprietary. “Now, before we depart, there is something thou must understand.” His fingers tightened, digging into the soft flesh beneath the fabric. “I expect perfect behavior from thee today. Thou wilt smile. Thou wilt speak only when spoken to. Thou wilt play the role of the grateful ward.”
I nodded mechanically, eyes fixed on my reflection rather than his face.
“If thou fails in this, if thou speaks out of turn, if thou hints at anything improper between us, if thou attempts to flee...” He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. “It will not be thee who suffers for it. Margaret will bear thy punishment. I will whip her until her back is in ribbons, and thou wilt be made to watch.Every stroke. Every scream. Every drop of blood. Dost thou understand?”
My stomach lurched. Not Margaret. Not the woman who had cleaned me with such gentle hands, who had shown me the only kindness I’d known since entering this house. I met Gaspard’s eyes in the mirror and saw nothing there but cold certainty. He would do it. He would hurt her to control me.
“I understand,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Good girl.” He patted my cheek, the gesture both condescending and threatening. “Now, let us go.”
He draped a cloak around my shoulders. Another new garment, rich and warm despite the season. He then guided me from the room with his hand knotted into the back of my dress. To anyone watching, it might have appeared a gentleman escorting his ward. Only I felt the vise-like grip, the way his knuckles pressed painfully against my spine.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we descended the stairs, though I already knew the answer.
“To church, of course,” Gaspard replied, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. “It is Sunday, after all. A day of worship and community.”
Sunday. Church. Father Simon’s domain. The place Papa and I had avoided, preferring to find our faith in the whispers of wind through leaves and the miracle of seeds becoming medicine. Sunday mornings had been special for Papa and me.
We spent quiet hours in the garden, harvesting herbs that were said to be most potent when collected at week’s beginning. Sometimes, we’d read together from Mama’s books, learning the old ways she had practiced before her passing.
Mama had taught us a few things before she passed. Like the true communion happened with hands in soil, not pressed together in pews. The thought of entering that stone building felt like yet another violation.
In my grief and terror, I had lost track of the days. The realization that it was the Sabbath brought a new wave of sorrow.
Mama would be rolling in her grave if she could see me now, being marched to Father Simon’s church like a lamb to slaughter. She had never trusted the church, had whispered warnings about men who claimed to speak for God while serving only themselves. Papa had heeded those warnings after her death, keeping us both away from Sunday services despite the village’s disapproval.
Margaret waited by the front door, holding it open for us. Her eyes met mine briefly as we passed, a silent apology in their depths. I tried to convey my own message that this wasn’t her fault. But I wasn’t sure she understood.
The morning air hit my face with unexpected freshness, a cruel reminder of the world that continued to turn despite my suffering. Birds sang in nearby trees. Sunlight dappled the cobblestone path leading from Gaspard’s home to the village proper. For a moment, I considered breaking free, running as fast as my legs would carry me. But where would I go? And what would happen to Margaret if I tried?
